Perfect
by Hernesdaughter
Summary: What if Christine had stayed the first time Erik took her down below the House? EC Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: These characters certainly are not mine and they can go back where they came from when you're done. This is an alternate universe work, based solely on Andrew Lloyd Webber's film, The Phantom of the Opera, and purely my way of escaping the tragedy of the film, which, while brilliant, broke my heart so badly that it was either write this, or seek professional help. No money was made from this story, unless you count what was saved on therapy and medication. A most sincere thank you to my beta readers, Beth, Kristin and Alina, any remaining mistakes are mine alone. I hope you enjoy it.

"_Angel, Oh Speak, What Endless Longings Echo in This Whisper!" _ Christine

**Perfect**

Christine loves it best when he sings to her, wrapping his arms around her. She can feel the notes deep in his chest, forget her worries and be safe in his embrace, just as her father kept her safe. He even smells reassuring, and she burrows deeper into his arms where they lie together on the phoenix bed. In the oasis of breast created by his open linen shirt, she listens to his voice, rubs her cheek against the warm silky texture of his skin, padded by strong muscles and adorned with just the right amount of hair.

She breathes in his scent, clean and masculine and uniquely _him_. He is always meticulously groomed, impeccably dressed, and she relaxes into him as a kitten into a warm lap. He holds her with an intensity bordering on scary, fierce love in his heart burning through the lace and ruffles to squeeze her tight. Her father promised he would send the Angel of Music to her, and her Angel was there, is here, holding her, watching. Always. She is never alone. All is just as it should be. Perfect.

When he sings to her softly, she snuggles into him, her long hair trailing over him while he cradles her close. When he sings to her with power, standing in front of her, her heart beats faster as he fills the air with magic. And when they sing their duet, she is straight as an arrow, her throat open and wide and the power racing through them both, and it seems they will soar up into the air with the joy of it.

It does not matter that half his face is twisted by some curse visited upon him in the womb. It does not matter, so long as he sings to her, watches over her and guides her through this life, this labyrinth of false friends and hangers-on who love her only for her fame. When some young man makes advances toward her, she smiles and says she is flattered, but that she is married to her Angel of Music. The young man leaves, his feelings spared, and she is free once more to retreat to the safety of her secret, her life, her Muse. It would not be wrong to call him that, this man who taught her everything, who made her a star and protects her interests, approving silently as she signs yet another contract, as yet another attempt to upstage her goes awry from some seemingly innocent mishap. Christine Daae is Diva in her own right, the Opera Populaire her absolute domain, and nothing can change that while her Angel lives.

She remembered the first time she knew he was real, not some bit of dream. She was nine, and had gone far below the dormitories to the levels where the workmen slept, their jobs to run the machines that gave life to the Opera House, creating the scenery and props for the performances. She was not allowed down here, but was at loose ends, and exploring the House was exciting. Too late to run away, she caught the eye of Joseph Buquet, a scenery worker, and found herself trapped between his dirty, ragged body and the wall behind her. She did not know what he wanted, but whatever it was it made her heart pound with fright, trying to get away.

Buquet's rancid breath was hot on her face, his greasy nose too close to hers, when a familiar man's voice rang out behind her captor. "Get away from her!" it roared, and a tall hooded figure grabbed Buquet's arms and flung him _hard_ against a railing, knocking the wind out of the man. The figure stepped close to Buquet where he lay on the ground, trying to breathe. "Come near her again, and I shall kill you," it snarled, the menace in his tone leaving no doubt as to his sincerity.

She stood against the wall, paralyzed. The hooded man held out a gloved hand to her. "Come, you must go back," he demanded angrily. She took the hand and went.

As they climbed up the levels to the dormitories the man turned to her, the dark hood still low over his face. She recognized him now; he was the voice in her dreams, the one who sang her to sleep when she first came to the House and cried every night for a month. He sang to her still, a disembodied voice in the chapel or dormitory, whenever she found herself alone. She thought him her father's spirit, or else the Angel of Music her father promised her; she had no idea he could take on human form, but did not question it. Worriedly he asked, "Have I not warned you away from here? How can I look after you if you will not obey me?" Christine burst into tears, no words coming to her defense. Madame Giry had warned her, and she had not done as she was bid. The man's voice gentled then, and he ran a hand over her braids. "Christine, you must promise never to disobey again, yes?" Christine swallowed hard, nodded.

And she never did disobey again. Terrified of her Guardian Angel's disapproval, longing to please, she did exactly as she was told. In time, she forgot the gloved hand, the dark hood, all but his voice, which never seemed very far away.

Later that evening, Buquet found a surprise waiting for him in his bed. A Punjab lasso lay just beneath his pillow.

Years passed, and with each one Christine longed even more to see her Angel of Music, her Guardian and now Teacher. Something odd happened when he sang to her; the rest of the world seemed to suddenly become unimportant, her Teacher the only thing that mattered. A Guardian Angel, indeed, for who else could do that? Always with her, yet unseen, he tutored her in voice, guiding her to wider ranges than she thought possible. Their duet was her chance to please her ethereal coach, her voice rising higher as he commanded, "Sing for _Me!_" If she did well, he would reward her with a rose tied with black ribbon. If not, she heard the disappointment in his tone, and regretted her lack of talent. Music scores would appear at the foot of her bed, sometimes the same ones as the performances running at the House, sometimes not. She would study them intently, bent on learning them before her next lesson. Her diligence was not lost on her Teacher, and there were roses for her preparation as well as her performance.

Then came the day when the unthinkable happened. The Phantom, a creature of dread and danger, drove La Carlotta away, and with no one to take her place, Madame Giry had Christine sing for the new owners. That night she was a _star_, and the audience cheered for her alone, Christine Daae. It was a brilliant night, complete with Raoul coming back into her life, ripping open a treasure chest of feelings long buried, and she could stand the mystery no longer. She had to ask, had to see her Master, her Angel, sent by her father to watch over her. She was now sixteen.

Not wings, but a cloak and mask instead, as her Angel of Music proved to be the selfsame Phantom of the Opera, appearing before her for the first time in seven years. He looked very different now, the hood replaced by a white leather half-mask, the work shirt and breeches by elegant evening attire. Singing to her from the dressing room mirror, where she thought no one could see, he reached right through the glass to admit her to his world. Eagerly taking his black-gloved hand, she followed him far below the Opera House, to a fantasyland no one knew existed, where a labyrinth of mist and lake carried them to his realm carved out of solid rock. Red velvet and lit candles, rising out of the lake by themselves, greeted her arrival as he brought the boat to a stop and helped her out. His hand was steady and strong, and the familiarity of their duet kept the panic at bay, the disappearance of all that she knew for this sumptuous and sensual place, all alone with the man responsible for her performance tonight, a man at once known and unknown, the formless voice given form.

Such form. He is beautiful, her Angel, and she strokes his chest lightly as they lie together. He craves her touch, her hands on him gentle, caring, so different from what he grew up with, knowing only beatings and pain. The tiny white scars on his torso prove it, and she revels in touching him now without fear of him shying away. It had taken time, his skin remembering what his mind tried to forget. Only one real flaw mars his perfection, one mask keeps him from becoming known in public as well as private. Sometimes she is glad of it; he does not belong to the world at large, but to her alone.

As her Angel showed her his underworld for the first time, he began to sing to her again, weaving a story of love and longing for _her_, Christine Daae. How he needed her, wanted her, longed for her touch and trust so that she could be his. It seemed a dream, Her Angel declaring his love for her like some fairytale knight in shining armor. Only this was real, and her senses were struck by this magnificent, seductive man who asked her to let her fantasies fly. His gloved hands on her were intimate, arousing, urging her to give in to the scenes that now came to her mind, his erotic presence crowding out all other thoughts. Seeing the replica of herself, life sized and wearing a bridal gown, was too much to take in after the night's exertions, followed by this unimaginable strangeness. She fainted, and slept.

She awoke to the chiming of the curious little music box, so like the one she was given on her eighth birthday. Rising, she remembered where she was, and tried to recall the night's events. Some things were unclear, but as she saw the masked man at the pipe organ, she was certain of one thing—this was her Angel of Music, and he loved her deeply. He sat pensively on the bench, scarcely breathing as he saw her, hoping she would come to him. The songs he'd sung to her pulled her toward him, warm and enticing. Not simply her Teacher now, her Master, he wanted her, needed her, and desperately wished for her to feel the same. He did not move as she came toward him, asking in song, "Who was that shape in the shadows? Whose is the face in the mask?" fascinated by what she saw. The white mask covered the nearer part of him, and he closed his eyes as she caressed the far side of his face, the one not covered.

This face that torments him, she found by casually taking off the mask, unwittingly sending him into a blind rage. Instantly shoving her away from him, he jumped up fast as lightning, covering the exposed flesh with his hand, whirling so quickly she was not sure of what she saw. Threatening her wildly he stormed over to a mirror, ripping down the cover, but she saw only indistinct shapes before he turned back to her, continuing his tirade. She stayed where she fell, dumbfounded and afraid.

Love him, yet never be free? Was she to have no choice, be _his_ like some leashed animal? These things fought in her mind as he sang, his tone changing now from punishing anger to his own pain and dread, his lyrics begging for love and acceptance. Through her shock she began to understand, hearing in his song her Angel's own hellish agony. How often had she imagined him, clothed in light, his only concern her welfare, and now to find her Angel mortal, flawed, and suffering his own trials was a revelation of the highest order. His pleas for her love and understanding despite his loathsome appearance were heartrending. She felt tears start as she tried to make sense of it all.

"Oh, Christine." His last words were spoken, not sung, as his voice ran out. The set of his shoulders was louder than any shout as he sank down on the ground, near her yet worlds away. His right hand still covering his ruined face, agitated and unwilling to meet her eyes, he stretched out his left, and she knew what he wanted.

Her heart went out to him as she slowly picked up the mask, the smooth white leather cool under her fingers, gave it to him without touching. Just as slowly he turned away, replacing it. Here was her Angel who sang to her in her dreams, who taught her from hidden places, whom she had known and trusted since she was a little girl, and she had cut him to the quick with her thoughtlessness. She did not know whom she cried for

now, herself or him, as hot tears brimmed over and spilled down her cheeks. He had trusted her enough to reveal himself and his abode to her, and she repaid that trust by wounding him terribly. She would give anything to take back her recklessness.

Of course she knew the rumors of The Phantom—his face was distorted, hideous, although no one could say they had seen him. She thought it a ruse, a device to let this Phantom interfere with the workings of the House. She did not think it could be true, that the beautiful face on one side was not, in fact, matched by the other. But the evidence was before her own eyes, and she pitied him, this strange man who was neither ghost nor angel but very real, very human in his need to hide behind the mask. Perhaps that was why he sang of her _belonging_ to him; he desperately wanted _to_ belong.

She knew grief all too well; it hurt beyond bearing that she was now the cause of his. She dearly wanted to salve his wound as he had done for her so many times. Her tears flowing, she tried to find her voice as she inched closer, reaching out to touch his sleeve. He shifted slightly as her hand settled on his arm. "_Please_, forgive me." She lowered her

eyes, contrite. "I didn't know." She made to withdraw her hand, stopping as he placed his bare hand over hers.

Quietly, defeated, he told her, "No, of course you didn't." His hand gripped hers, squeezing lightly. "I frightened you. Now I ask _your_ forgiveness." He turned toward her, filled with regret. "It's been more than twenty years since anyone has done that to me." Her eyes widened at that. "_Please_…stay. I should have known…tell me, are you all right?" She nodded, and he closed his eyes, sighing in relief. "You are my Angel…I wanted my introduction to be perfect."

Her voice steadied as her crying slowed. "But there's no need for an introduction, Master. You've watched over me since I was little, you sang me to sleep every night," she added, wonder growing in her voice, "and you have been teaching me all this time." She stopped. "I _know_ you." Her tears began to dry as she engaged him.

Releasing her hand for just a moment, he gestured toward the air between them, unable to meet her eyes. "Yes, but then you were a child, and now…" he paused, swallowed. "You are a woman."

_And you are a man_, she thought, but did not speak it aloud. She was shaken by both his caring and his violence. His bearing, his manner, his hand that kept hers on his arm—he was no longer a supernatural figure fleeing the daylight, but a man, flesh and blood and

hurting from the wound she'd ripped open without thinking. She wanted to know more, the anxiety of the past days spent rehearsing with her unseen Teacher crowned with her triumph tonight, _his_ triumph. With her debut, as much his accomplishment as hers, they entered a new era between them. Gathering her courage, she dared to question him now as she would never have dared before. Sliding her other hand up his arm toward his shoulder, she asked, "That last piece—did you write that for me?"

Nodding, he sang a phrase from it. Singing was easier than speech. "Fear can turn to love, you'll learn to _see_, to find the man…" his voice choked, and he fell silent, his jaw working as he tried to fight his own tears. Here was his Angel, whom he loved more than life itself, who had finally asked to see him, and he had nearly ruined it all with his outburst. Of course she didn't know, would want to know. She had come to him, but she had unwittingly gone too far, and in the comfort of his fantasies he had never imagined her doing such a thing. Except it was exactly what a young woman would do with such a strange suitor. He tried to control his breathing, tried not to let on how close he was to being completely undone, but knew he was losing. Christine was too important to him. The prospect of losing her now, when he was so close, was terrifying.

She saw a tear reflected by the candlelight. A night for tears, then, for emotions running high. She had tried so hard to please her unseen Teacher; she could only imagine what _he_

must have gone through, hiding his deformity from her not just these past days, but all these _years_. What had happened twenty years ago? Why had someone else ripped off his

mask, and why exactly did he need it? She would get no answers without asking questions. "If I'm to see the man, may I know his name?" she asked softly. Her hands remained on him, the cool texture of the black velvet sleeve contrasted with his warm hand, large and strong where it lay on top of hers.

"Erik," he whispered past the constriction in his throat. His normal side was toward her, and he flinched at her touch, the brush of her fingers wiping the tear from his cheek. Afraid to hope, he risked glancing at her directly, uncertainty in his changing eyes. Perhaps all was not lost, then, and he felt his chest begin to loosen as he took heart at her tone. Still she saw only his unmasked side.

"Erik," she repeated, trying out the name like an exotic costume. How strange, to finally have a real name for her Angel, her Teacher: her Phantom. "Erik…?" she inquired, naturally assuming there was more.

A wounded look crept into his gaze as he met hers. It took him a moment to speak. "Yes, just that. I can't remember any other." He retreated back into himself, turning away from her and releasing her hand. She might want nothing to do with him, a man with only one name, no claim or ties to family or lands. Not compared to that dandy,

Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, who had the audacity to come charging into _his_ Theater, trying to take Christine away from him.

Christine grew uneasy as her Angel, no, _Erik_, she reminded herself, said nothing, wondering what was behind his disconcerting comment. Could not remember? What had his life been, then, that he did not even remember his family name? She placed her hand back on his velvet sleeve, but this time it remained there alone. She waited, but he added nothing more. She was in a quandary, not knowing what to say that would not injure him further.

Here was her Angel before her; he had a name, and he was real, not some ethereal being. She studied him. The rumors were exaggerated. True, half his face was covered, but it was only half his face, certainly not anything like she had heard. What lay under the mask she did not know, but she knew _him_, had known him almost all her life; he was her anchor, filling the empty place in her heart her father left when he died. An orphan did not have much chance in life, and her Angel had seen to it that she became a _star_. She would never have thought it possible, and it was because of this one man, Erik. All this time he had kept his own counsel, never speaking of love or longing to her. It was she who had sought _him_ out, asked him to reveal himself to her. Now at last he showed his true feelings, and she searched her heart to determine what her course should be.

Then…_yes_, she realized. Music could succeed where words failed. With her other hand she caressed his cheek lightly, ignoring his tiny jump. He hadn't seen her hand approaching. And now she sang to him, filling her voice with tenderness. "_You_ were that shape in the shadows, _yours_ is the face in the mask…Now may I look on your visage? That is all I ask…" His shoulders eased, and she let her vibrato rise, filling the space of stone and lake. "Angel of Music! Guide and Guardian, grant to me _Your_ Glory! Angel of Music, hide no longer, _come_ to me, Strange Angel!" and with the last line, she slid her hand all the way under his jaw, turning his full face back toward her. Her eyes glowed warmly into his. She began tracing his features with her fingertips, and this time he did not flinch, watching her keenly. She was careful not to touch the mask, resting at last over his soft lips.

He caught her delicate fingers in his hand, kissing them reverently. Waiting for her reaction, he feared she would pull away. She did not. Relief so strong he was glad of the ground underneath went through him. Searching her eyes, he found welcome there, and…could it be..? _Love_. His whole body softened, and he smiled, melting into her brown eyes joyfully.

He sang, "I am your Angel of Music…come to me, Angel of Music," and she picked it up, rejoicing together. "I am your Angel of Music…_Come_ to me, Angel of Music!" and Christine leaned in toward her Phantom.

It was then that she kissed him for the first time, a simple kiss full on his mouth, startling him in her boldness.

He dared not move, savoring the golden moment he'd awaited so long: his love, his pupil, his Angel _loved_ him. He had waited so long for her to come to him, had almost lost patience and revealed his feelings so many times, and finally the day had come when she _asked_ to see him. It was perfect, just as Fleur had said it would be. Christine was old enough now for love--true, real love: and she chose _him_. Joy threatened to burst his heart. Her lips lingering on his, he forgot how to breathe.

Pulling back, Christine let them part, her eyes on Erik's perfect, soft lips. There was nothing wrong with them; she moved closer, kissing him again sweetly, his mouth, his cheek, his chin, along his jaw and down his throat, returning to his lips once again. His hands joined hers, clasped together between them, a bridge from heart to heart. She kissed the backs of his hands, weaving her fingers together with his.

At last she straightened to look into his eyes, seeing the stunned ecstasy there on his face. Slowly, he bent toward her, and his lips sought hers this time, opening just slightly, letting her decide what she wanted. She took his invitation, tenderly kissing him inside now, a true lover's kiss, long and deep. He made a low sound, so quiet she almost missed it, and committed himself to the kiss, devouring her mouth with his own. His arms going around her waist, they breathed life into each other as they delighted in their new bond, laid over the old.

An eternity passed in the moments it took to kiss. But it was also very late now, and he forced himself to say the words he hated—"Come, we must return. Those two fools who run my Theatre will be missing you." Gossip would run wild if Christine were not in her bed when the House awoke, and Madame Giry would worry if Christine were here all night. Still, Fleur knew full well where Christine was, and that she was perfectly safe with him.

Christine's face changed, filling with dismay.

"What is it?" asked her new love, concern shaking his confidence.

"Raoul came to see me; he wanted me to go with him to supper," she said uncertainly. "What shall I tell him?"

"Forget him! You are never to see him again," he stated harshly, his eyes flashing with anger. He would _not_ allow Raoul to take Christine from him. Consciously he released her hands, afraid he would overstep his bounds in his temper.

"But we were children together, and now his family is supporting the House. Surely I must see him if he asks," she answered, conflicted.

"No, Christine, I forbid it!" he spat out. "He does not deserve you!" She shrank back at his tone, and he saw it, but could not stop. Viciously he asked, "Where was _he_ these past nine years? Where was _he_ when you were brought here as a mere child? When you spent your days around dangerous machinery and even more dangerous men? Where was _he_," he started, and his voice caught suddenly, shaking—"when you almost died last year?" he asked, horrified. He took her hands again, his anxiety plain. "Who do you think it was that took care of you?"

"I thought it was Madame Giry," she answered, doubt coming into her mind.

"No, Christine," he said faintly. "It was _me_," he told her, raising her hands to his good cheek, closing his eyes a moment against the remembrance of fear. He sighed, beating back the memories. "I was asleep, when something…a feeling of dread…woke me. It was very late. I thought I should see if you were safe, or else I could not rest again. When I came into your dormitory, all the girls were asleep, except you." He stopped a moment, putting into words the awful night. "You were in your bed, but you were flushed an unhealthy red, shivering even though your blankets were pulled up around you. I came near, and could _feel_ the heat radiating from you. You were very sick with fever." Again he stopped, terror so thick he could feel his throat closing with it. He opened her hands and kissed her palms, as if kissing a sacred relic. She tried to calm him: pulling one hand free, she caressed his good side lovingly as he continued. "I woke Fleur." At Christine's questioning look, he added, "Madame Giry. She came out to you at once, waking the others. I watched, helpless, as she brought you medicines, water, stripping off the blankets to cool you down."

He knelt then, pulling her tight against him, the mask pressing against her cheek as he held her close, reassuring himself that it was over, she was all right now. She could feel his ragged breathing through his jacket. "All that night I stayed nearby. It was impossible to rest. Then daylight came, and the House awoke, leaving Fleur no choice but to continue the ballet work. She didn't dare leave you alone." He released her and sat back on his heels, once again taking her hands in his. "She did not even have to ask

_I_ stayed with you." He looked her deep in the eyes, and the distress there made her heart turn over. "Of course you don't remember: you were delirious. I held you in my arms while you hovered between life and death." He watched her carefully now as he added; "That was when I first knew I loved you. Not as a father loves a child, nor as a teacher loves a student, but as a man loves a woman. I couldn't bear it if you were gone from the world. It was then I resolved to do all I could to inspire you to love me in return."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The memories came flooding back.

"Father!" Christine cried, weak and staring into nothing, "Father, where are you?" Her voice rose frantically; "Please, don't leave me! Father! _Father_!"

"_Shhh_, I'm here child," Erik told her, bathing her forehead again as he stood over her in her bed, the dormitories empty with the day's lessons. It was like any other day, except that this day his student and charge these last eight years, whom he had come to care for far more than he dared admit, lay gravely ill. It was a day like no other for the man who had never known love, never known fear grasping at him as he did now, when suddenly his Angel might be taken from him. Quietly, he repeated, "_Shhh_, _shhh_, I'm here now, I won't leave you. It's all right now."

As she closed her eyes and moaned yet again, he began to panic. She wasn't getting better; she was getting worse, her eyes glassy and her cheeks burning red. With each passing hour she sank farther from the real world. He did not know if she would live through the day. He knelt next to her, taking off his jacket and leaving it with his gloves on the footboard. He spoke to her tenderly, telling her he was here, she wasn't alone, she would never be alone. Suddenly Christine turned and reached out for him, burying her face in his shirt, her arms going around him as if she were indeed seven years old again. Her voice was tinged with hysteria: "Oh, Father, please, _please_, don't go, don't go, I'll be _good_! I _promise_!"

His heart broke at that, and he gingerly put his arms around his Angel for the very first time. How long had he wanted to hold her like this, and now it would be when she lay dying. He'd never even shown himself to her since that day so long ago. Perhaps it had all been a mistake, and regret for lost opportunities bit at him.

No more. Making up his mind, he climbed onto her bed, leaning back against the wall and cradling her close. At least he could hold her this one last time, letting her have the comfort of his arms around her. Kissing the top of her head, he spoke soothingly, saying whatever came to mind. "Of _course_ you are, you've always been my good girl, don't fret now, child. I'm _here_, I'm not leaving you. I'll _never_ leave you." He went back to stroking her hair, bent to kiss her forehead tenderly. She was so hot, burning up. Her eyes opened and looked right through him to something that wasn't there, and that more than anything scared him. Tears of helplessness started down his cheeks as he kept murmuring, "I'll never leave you, never, _shhh_, it's all right now, I'm _here_, Christine. _Father's_ here. _Shhh_ now, there's a good girl, it's all right."

At last she quieted and slept, her breathing shallow and too rapid. It was then that he became truly aware of what her loss would mean to him. He had built his world around Fleur, Meg, and then Christine. Now he faced Christine's loss, and found pain too dreadful to bear, as if nails were driving into his breast. He looked down at her and realized he saw her now not as a child, nor an adolescent, but as a young woman, beautiful and full of promise. And the realization hit him that he did, indeed, _love_ her. He, Erik, for whom love was not possible, now himself _loved_. And it was a terrible burden.

She was too silent. He began soothing her again, hoping she would stir, but she did not. This stillness was awful, and he listened carefully, felt for her pulse. She was so hot, her pulse fast and weak, and he began to pray for the first time in his life. "God, oh God in Heaven, if there is such a thing, please, _please_ don't take my Christine," he whispered, the unfamiliar words fervent on his lips. "Please, please, I'll _never_ leave her if you only let her live. I promise to watch over her always. _Please_!" he choked out, and despaired, sobs racking him silently, shaking Christine with each one.

Perhaps it was the tears streaming onto her face, or perhaps God did indeed answer Erik's desperate prayer. But some time later, after Erik himself dozed off from exhaustion, Christine's fever broke.

He woke with a start, panicked that he had fallen asleep for even a second. Something was different, and he frantically felt for a pulse in Christine's neck. His hand came away damp from her throat, and her pulse was slower, stronger now. Unwilling to believe, he felt her forehead—damp with sweat, and cool to his touch, her cheeks no longer crimson. Her breathing was regular and deep, and the feeling of imminent death was gone from the room. He checked her again and again before he would let himself believe it, but her fever had indeed broken. She was going to live. "_Thank You_," he whispered gratefully to the unseen God.

The light was fading when there came a knock on the door, and Fleur Giry stepped inside, quickly locking the door before anyone else could see. "How is she?" she asked quietly, taking in the man sitting on Christine's bed, holding her as if she were made of fragile porcelain. There were circles under his eyes, and his disheveled, sweat-soaked clothing spoke volumes. Even through the mask she could see how drained he was. She felt Christine's forehead as Erik disengaged himself from her and stood up, laying his charge gently down and arranging her comfortably on her bed.

"I thought she was _dying_, Fleur," he said raggedly, a sob almost breaking from him. "But then I slept a little, I couldn't help it, and when I awoke she was…_better_." And he sighed deeply, running a hand over his good side. His indrawn breath was uneven.

Fleur nodded, folding Christine's hair tenderly up onto her pillow, out of her way. Christine's sleep was deep and abnormal, but no longer dangerously so. Yes, she would live, but it had been close. Relieved, she turned to him. "You did well, my dear," she told Erik, smiling at him. "I do not think she would have made it if you had not been here."

He sank down suddenly onto his knees, shaking uncontrollably. "_Erik_! What is it?" Fleur cried as he grabbed the bed for support, burying his face in the blankets.

"Oh, _Fleur_," he said thickly, talking into the blankets so that she could barely hear him. "Fleur, I'm so frightened, I don't know what to do!"

Alarmed, she bent over him, putting a hand on his shoulder. For once, he did not instantly pull away when an unexpected touch came. He was that tired, that upset. She noticed his gloves were off, too. Something he hardly ever did. "My dear, Christine will be well, she is out of danger now," she told him, smoothing the black wig back down where it had become mussed. "Surely you realize that?"

"No, that's not it, Fleur," he said, still talking into the blankets. He lifted his face up, torment in every line of his body. "I think I'm in _love_!"

Her expression softened then, and she carefully sat on the foot of Christine's bed near him. Fleur's glance confirmed that Christine slept deeply still. She coaxed him closer, stroking his arm as he allowed his head to lie in her lap. "I thought this day would come. It is Christine, yes?" at his miserable nod, she went on. "I have seen how you look at her this past year. I knew it was only a matter of time before you saw it, too."

He looked up at her, his face bleak. "What am I to do?" he asked hopelessly.

"Can it be love, this pain that rips at my soul? Is this what you felt for Alphonse? How did you bear it?"

Wistfully she looked at him, petting him again as one would calm a small child. "Yes, my dear, it is love. And yes, it is what I felt for Alphonse, that I _must_ be with him or I would suffer agonies beyond telling," she said. Ever the practical one, she sighed, then went on. "Well, she is already fifteen. Old enough to make up her own mind." She fixed his gaze, her eyes piercing his with wisdom he could only guess at. "But, Erik, she is still very young. You must wait for _her_ to come to _you_, do you understand?" At his nod, she continued, "She is _only_ fifteen. True, she is a young woman, but _she_ must be the one to decide when she is ready to return your love. On this, there can be no argument. If you try to force the issue, she may run, and you will be heartbroken." She risked cupping his chin in her hand, her eyes compassionate. "I would not see you hurt, my dear. You will do as I say, yes?"

"Yes," he agreed, crestfallen. At least now he did not have to do anything but watch and wait.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Christine took a moment to absorb this, looking down at their clasped hands. She knew he cared for her, but to know just how deeply he felt, and for how long, was beyond simple words. "I thought, over the years, that you must have _some_ love for me, but I never dreamt it was so much, Mas--…_Erik_," she added deliberately, meeting his gaze, "and I _do_ return your love." Kissing his lips once again, she sealed her words to his heart; "I do." With that, she kissed him again, thoroughly, delicately, taking away the pain of the memories and replacing it with something much better—belonging.

He broke their kiss, afraid to ask but unable to stop himself. "Christine," he began, ignoring his racing heart, "will you marry me?" It was too much, too sudden, he knew, but he continued despite his better judgment.

"_Marry_ you?" she asked, astonished. She remembered the doll in the bridal dress.

"Yes, why not? You do love me, don't you?" he pressed.

"Yes, I do, but…_marriage_? So _soon_?" she asked, apprehensive.

"Why should we wait? Say yes!" he implored. She had to agree, it couldn't be any other way.

"But…" she stopped, not sure how to put her doubts into words without hurting him again.

"What is it? You _must_ tell me," he demanded.

Slowly she touched the mask, resting her whole hand on it. She did not speak; she didn't have to.

He placed his hand over hers where it lay on his mask. "You would let this stop you?" he whispered, crushed. "But you forgave me," he pleaded.

"And I do forgive you, but if you cannot share yourself, _that_ would stop me," she said as gently as she could, hoping she did not sound cruel.

"Why? What does it matter?" he asked, dismayed.

"I've trusted you all this time; can't you trust me?" she answered, their hands still on the mask. Of this much she was sure; she loved him, yes, but _marrying_ someone whose face she did not know was unthinkable, and exactly _what_ had happened twenty years ago? If he could not share himself, trust her to understand, there was no point in marrying.

He searched her eyes, gauging her resolve. Finally, he decided. He had been rash to ask her, and if this was the price he had to pay for that rashness, then so be it. It was too late to turn back now. He stood up slowly, fright pounding in his chest. Giving her his hand to help her up, he led her to another one of the large mirrors he kept covered. Reluctantly, dreamlike, he threw the cover off and stood stock still in front of it. He waited.

Christine stood beside him. She realized what this must cost him, but she simply could not contemplate _marrying_ someone who could withhold such a thing from her. Standing next to him, they watched themselves in the mirror for several long moments. Just as she had asked her Angel to reveal himself tonight, here was the final revelation. She took in his figure as it was now, perfect hair and perfect mask, his clothing immaculately clean. The black hair was too perfect; she knew it had to be a wig as so many people wore for fashion's sake. But what lay underneath, his true self, this she had to know or else he should never have asked her to marry him.

How brave of him, to acquiesce to her. He stood looking at her in the mirror, eyes locked on hers, waiting. She could see the mounting tension in him; his chest began to heave, the enormity of what she asked crashing down on him, but still he remained, unmoving, when clearly he wanted to bolt like a frightened horse.

She lifted her hands to the mask, carefully removing it by the edges. This side of his true face was not, in fact, pleasant to look upon; the whorls and bumps of flesh red in places, the eye socket distorted above and below by some extra layer underneath that continued along the cheek, back toward the ear. The hair had disappeared from the invading growth, retreating back and up from where it should have been. She could see now why he wore the wig; he really had no choice, and she carefully loosened it, too, smoothly sliding it off of his real hair underneath. She stood with him, holding mask and wig, looked back at him in the mirror.

His entire face was now become the mask as he waited for her judgment, not allowing anything to show at all. He felt more exposed in front of Christine than in front of all the clients his owner had ever brought in.

She turned back to his real self, to what he had fought so hard to hide. And looked, closely, at the real him. He must have been born this way; there was nothing she knew of that would do this, and for all that the flesh and bone were misshapen, they did not look diseased. They looked malformed, as if the sculptor had left this work unfinished, forgetting to smooth out the rough planings. Here, then, was her Angel's secret, what kept him in the recesses of the Theater and forced him into the hidden places. The courage it took for him to show her his true self moved her more than she could say; he risked all by allowing her to see him: he had risked all for her for years.

He watched her expression in the mirror as she changed, softened, pitied, moved into lovingkindness, at last meeting his eyes in the mirror again.

"Does it hurt?" she asked sympathetically, plainly concerned for him.

He drew a deep, ragged breath, closing his eyes briefly. His shoulders slumped in relief. "A little, sometimes," he answered.

She set the mask and wig down on a nearby table. Turning back to his mirrored self, she wordlessly asked permission to touch his bad side. He nodded. Tentatively she ran her fingers over the flesh there, learning this part of him that so few ever saw. Her touch was so soft, so tender that he allowed himself a heavy sigh. A mother could not be more gentle with her newborn. She moved on to his natural hair, admiring the mix of colors that created a warm brown rather than the severe black he preferred, stroking it into place so that it lay evenly down both sides of his face. Still he dared not move.

Taking his face in both her hands, she gently pulled his head down to her level. "Close your eyes," she told him, placing a kiss on first his good eyelid, then the other as he did so. Whisper-soft, she kissed his face, slow, tiny kisses going over every inch as she deliberately lingered on his malformed side. His eyes flew open again, amazed. She ended by sliding her arms around his neck, her flawless cheek to his bad one. "I love you," she whispered as they stood together.

He began to wrap his arms around her.

"What happened more than twenty years ago?"

And froze. He should have known she would ask; it wasn't like her to allow such a comment to go by the wayside. He held her at arm's length, searching her face. All right, then. She had a right to know, if he was asking her to make a life with him. No more secrets. He nodded once, resigned.

He let go of her, taking off the velvet jacket. Carefully folding it, he placed it on the same table that held the mask and wig, then began unbuttoning his shirtsleeves, pulling the fabric out of the black trousers he wore. Letting the shirt fall at his feet, he stood in front of her naked to the waist. Again, he waited.

Christine was baffled at first, trying to meet his eyes, but he would not cooperate. She let her gaze travel down, to his shoulders, his chest…and stopped, aghast. Yes, he was beautiful, yes, he was handsome, but his lovely skin was marked with thin white scars. Paling, she walked slowly around him, seeing what had once been cuts that ran all over his body. The implications were staggering. She dared not touch him until she came full circle, and even then let only two fingers rest on his forearm. Looking him directly in the eye, she asked, "What _happened_?"

"I killed the man who gave me these," he hissed, his voice filled with hatred. His eyes were blazing.

She cried, "_Who_? How could anyone _do_ such a thing?"

"He was my Keeper," he said, spitting it out. "And he did it because he _enjoyed_ it." He stopped, his jaw working in the rage that came back. He _wanted_ to explain, but it was so hard, the feelings so strong they threatened to sweep him away. He saw himself in the mirror, realized how threatening he looked. He couldn't take the chance of scaring Christine again. He made himself take a deep breath, patted her hand where it lay on his arm. "Come, sit with me," he said, bending down to retrieve the shirt. He pulled it back on but did not close it, walking to the bed where there was room for two, and they sat where she had previously lain. He would not meet her eyes, kept his hands carefully away from her. A long silence stretched out as he wondered where to begin. He stared resolutely at the floor, at the dancing patterns in the rug there.

Christine sat next to him, studying his good side, waiting for him to find the words. She wanted to touch him but knew better than to try.

"Christine, Fleur brought you here when you were seven," he began. "I was nine when she did the same for me, twenty-four years ago."

Haltingly he told her of the young boy whose mother both loathed and feared him, selling him gladly to the passing carnival. Of being tied like an animal and locked in a filthy cage for the amusement of the crowds, called the Devil's Child now, of the pitiful hood being torn off again and again, whipped into shameful exposure until he could stand it no more. The day Fleur witnessed his humiliation he sensed something different about her; she was moved by his plight, and finally his torment boiled over into rage. He picked up the ropes and strangled his torturer, with Fleur the only witness. Escaping the cage, he was found out and the alarm raised, but instead of turning him over to the mob, Fleur grabbed his hand and ran, back to the House and a hidden entrance, hiding him from the evil of the world; he'd lived here ever since.

By the time he finished, Christine was weeping openly. "Oh, _God_," she managed, "I didn't _know_, I didn't _know_, I'm so sorry, _please_…" she implored, sinking to the floor at his feet, "Master, _forgive_ me!"

"Don't call me that," he said sharply, the title making him recoil in disgust. He pulled her back up onto the bed with him, battling the ghosts clamoring in his mind, seeing them so clearly the intervening years might as well have vanished. The shame and rage seethed inside him, and he feared he would lose control of himself again. He tried to concentrate on _now_, on his Angel here with him after so much longing, crying for him as her sensitive heart broke from her unknowing trespass.

Finally he felt the ghosts recede, and he could look at _her_ again, wipe her tears away and caress her face tenderly. "Christine, _please_. I'm not cross with you." He kissed her forehead, absolving her of guilt. "You and Fleur are the only ones I have ever told. _Please_, stop crying now," he said gently, looking into her eyes and regretting the sorrow in them. "Of course, how could you marry someone without sharing their secrets? It wasn't my intention to make you cry; I only wanted you to know."

He lifted her chin, smiling a little, but it didn't reach his eyes. He felt exhausted, hollow, the confession taking its toll after all the long years of being locked away. But it was worth it if his Angel would stay, marry him, make him complete.

Nothing stood between them now, truth replacing the fear brought about by semblances and deceptions. Taking her hands he asked her again, but this time honestly, cleanly. "Christine? Will you marry me? Now that you know my secrets?" Her eyes were swollen and her nose ran, but she looked more beautiful to him now than ever. Letting go her hands, he waited for her answer, anxiety clawing at him; what if she said no?

Wiping her nose with her sleeve, she thought on what he asked. He had loved her in so many ways for so many years, she could think of no one else she could trust the way she trusted him. Now he trusted her in return, sharing himself at great expense. She had loved him too, relying on him for comfort and protection despite his dwelling in the shadows. She knew there was nothing he would not do for her; she could ask him to rip his heart from his breast, and he would do it. His belief in her talent and his tutelage led to her triumph tonight, and it seemed the natural progression of things that her Angel of Music, sent by her father, should now become her husband. What strange circumstances conspired that she would now join her life to his in body as well as soul, and she knew they were meant for each other. It was indeed perfect. Looking into her strange Angel's eyes, she saw his uncertainty and smiled lovingly. "Yes, I will," she said simply.

His arms went around her, holding her tight to him, and they swayed a moment as he almost lost his balance, trembling hard. His dream of love now at last came true; she was really here, really loved him in return, did not run shrieking from him like some monster. She had seen his true self, knew his haunting past, and loved him more because of it. "You're my _life_, Christine," he told her, almost breaking down again, "I love you. I've _always_ loved you." He released her just enough to ask her directly; "Soon, then? Marry me soon?" a long engagement would kill him, he thought. "_Please_," he pleaded.

Radiant, Christine agreed, "Yes, all right, soon," and he kissed her at that, deliberately, gratefully. The hollow feeling scuttled away in the face of his joy.

Something was missing, he thought. "Here," he told her, taking her hand and bringing her to the doll where it stood, frozen and silent. He removed a ring from its finger, pressing it into her hand.

She looked at it, enchanted. It was a golden band with a filigree rose in the center, lacy and delicate; the gold that made up the rose itself was actually a shade of pink. "It's beautiful, thank you!" she exclaimed, placing it on her ring finger. It was exactly her size.

She was still admiring the ring when she felt his hand on her cheek, and looked up to see his eyes filling with tears. He was smiling through them, and she turned into his hand, kissing his palm. She could never have imagined this night, and embraced him, laying her head on his bare shoulder, wanting only to be close, to be together.

They stood like that a long time, listening to each other's breath, basking in each other's warmth, not speaking a word. It was too wonderful, to be loved. Each thought their lives now made sense, that at last they had a reason _to_ live.

A soft chime broke their reverie. It was 3 AM, and Christine was not yet back in the girls' quarters. "Now, we must go," Erik said apologetically. "Fleur will be anxious, and you must not be found missing in the morning." He kissed her once more, tender and slow, marveling at how he could do that now, tonight, marveling again that she kissed him back. This kiss was a promise for the future, and a wish that this night could last forever. Finally he had to let it end.

He refastened the shirt, Christine helping with the buttons. How charmingly domestic, to have help in such a simple thing as dressing. Not since Fleur was bringing him clothing had anyone helped him. He reached for the wig, but Christine stopped him. "Please, let me," she said, and he did, sitting for her so she could do it properly. There wasn't a person in the whole House who couldn't do hairpieces. When she was done she simply picked up the mask and carefully placed it, too, on him, standing back to make sure both wig and mask fit perfectly. They did. "Thank you," he said, kissing her hand. He donned the jacket and gloves, collecting his cloak.

Christine saw his transformation into the mysterious Phantom, her Angel of Music, and was intrigued. It was bizarre, beyond imagination, but this night was real, after all. She shivered a little, and he quickly threw the cloak over her shoulders. She was surprised at its warmth, its heaviness. It was enormous, and she was dwarfed in it.

He saw it, saw her standing looking tiny amid its folds, and took a moment to kiss her again, his eyes warm as he thought how precious she was to him; he might never have seen this night, seen her waiting for him in his cloak. She was indeed his own Angel. Extending a hand, he took hers in it as she gathered the cloak to a more suitable length.

As they returned to the upper levels of the House, Christine no longer recognized the way. "Where are we going?" she asked, as they ascended yet another narrow passageway. Erik had brought along a torch; at times they needed it.

He turned to answer her. "I know all the secret ways here. I come and go as I please, and no one the wiser." He smiled at her, mischief in his eyes. "How do you think I entered your dormitory after Fleur locked the doors?"

She stopped dead for a moment at that; it had never occurred to her. He laughed quietly, unable to stop himself.

They came at last to a door in a wall. Erik sat the torch in the bracket next to it and knocked softly; Christine heard Madame Giry's voice bidding them enter. When the door opened, she saw it was Madame Giry's room; she was waiting for them on her chaise lounge, and stood quickly as they came in. "My dears, are you all right? You were gone so long, I did not know what to think!" Christine was startled to realize Madame Giry _expected_ Christine to be with him. How well _did_ they know each other after all?

Putting his arm around Christine's shoulders, Erik showed Fleur the rose ring on her hand. "Fleur, we have news," he said excitedly, "She said yes!" Madame Giry stared, disbelieving, at the ring on Christine's hand, speechless. Shaking her head, a smile broke across her face as she looked from one to the other. "Well, then congratulations, my dears!" she exclaimed, holding out her arms to embrace them both at once. "This is wonderful news. And when do you plan on having this wedding?"

Erik answered, "As soon as you can arrange it, Fleur. And," he added, his eyes sparkling, "you must also tell Meg; it is time she knew the truth as well."

Christine watched as Madame Giry changed, clearly reluctant to reveal the Phantom of the Opera to even her own daughter. Then Fleur sighed heavily, resigned. "You miss her, I know," she said. Erik looked down, seeming sad all at once. "But let me tell her, yes? It would be better coming from me."

Erik brightened at that. "Whatever you think best."

Turning to Christine, Fleur told her, "And now, you must to bed. Remember, not a word of this to anyone, Christine, not even Meg. Erik's secret is now yours, and you _must_ keep it, for your safety as well as his. You understand?" She turned back to Erik. "Wait here," she commanded.

Christine nodded soberly, her responsibility dawning on her. "I will, I promise." She was swept up in Erik's embrace, his kiss on her lips embarrassing her in front of the Ballet Mistress. The night's discoveries were going to take some getting used to. Madame Giry took her hand, a candle in the other, leading her out of the door to the dormitories down the hall. She lifted her finger to her lips for silence as Christine entered the sleeping dormitory, handing Erik's cloak to Madame Giry.

Christine heard the lock working again behind her. _That won't keep him out_, she thought, and smiled, wondering if her Angel would come to her in the night.

The clock was chiming four as Fleur entered her room again, Erik waiting for her. He knew what was coming, and bristled at Fleur doubting him. "Erik," she began, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand. "No. Of course not. How dare you ask me that?" he said angrily, sitting stiffly on her lounge.

Relieved at his answer, she relaxed. "I _am_ sorry," she told him, "but you know I worry." She came to sit beside him, giving him the cloak and putting a hand on his shoulder. "You have done a great thing tonight, it is your _triumph_! You have made Christine into the star you always said she could become. You should be very proud," she smiled at him, then became earnest. "But her career is just beginning, and if she were to have a child now, it would mean the end of it. You know that, yes?" she asked kindly, searching his face.

The anger drained out of him at that, and he studied the floor, not sure of himself. "I do not think I could bring a child into the world with this curse, Fleur," he said slowly, looking up at her at last. "You'll help me?" he asked, knowing she could. She knew _everything_.

"Of course, always," she told him; he laid his head on her shoulder, his arms around her waist.

"You're so good to me," he said softly.

"As you are to me, my dear," she replied. She put one arm around his shoulder, resting her chin on him. "I have one more question," she began, letting him sit back up to look at her curiously. "Did she see you?" she asked, concerned.

His smile was brilliant in response, and she had her answer before he spoke. "_Yes_! That's what's so marvelous! She _insisted_, and _that's_ when she said yes!" he took her arms for emphasis, hardly containing his joy. "She's the most caring, compassionate…" he stopped, chagrined. Here was the compassionate woman who'd rescued _him_, looked after _him_ all these years, and he was going on about Christine with no regard for her feelings. "I…I didn't mean…" he began, but Fleur smiled, amused.

"No, my dear, it is all right," she said, shaking his arms indulgently. "You are in _love_, this is what you should be saying. And now, I must get some rest before the day begins. Time for you to go!" she told him, escorting him back toward the hidden door. "And you must rest as well!" she called after him as he disappeared.

But he was too elated to sleep. Later, as Christine awakened briefly between dreams, she could swear she heard her Angel, singing to her softly.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

When Christine awoke the next morning daylight was streaming through the windows, and she was alone. "Angel?" she called, looking around and seeing she was the last one abed. How late was it? She got up, pulling on her dressing gown.

"You were tired," came the soft answer, from somewhere she couldn't see. "Fleur let you sleep."

"Come out, then," she answered just as softly, "tell me last night was no dream?"

"Look at your hand," replied the disembodied voice.

She looked, and there, where she had placed it last night, was the filigree ring. She smiled, then sang, "Angel of Music, hide no longer, _Come_ to me, strange Angel," and suddenly he was there in front of her. "How did you do that?" she asked before he wrapped the cloak around her, enveloping them both.

"I have my ways," he said enigmatically, letting his forehead rest against hers within the wings of the cloak. The mask between them no longer seemed intrusive, but a natural part of him. One gloved hand caressed her face; his lips kissed hers gently. "There is coffee," he said, stepping back and gesturing toward the small table. She had never seen the silver coffee service before. Another advantage to being a ghost? There were two china cups, and a tray of croissants.

"Only if you'll join me," she said, bringing the table closer.

"Very well, but I must go if someone comes." He was thrilled, but nervous all the same.

"Then I hope no one does," she told him, sitting down on the bed and gesturing for him to sit next to her.

"Agreed." Taking off the cloak he poured for them both, the black gloves looking very elegant as they gripped the cup. He was of course dressed neatly, but this time wore a green vest and brown trousers instead of black. He must have found time to change.

She snuggled into her Angel's side, his arm going around her shoulder. She could hardly believe this was real, and put up her face to be kissed; willingly he complied. "Erik," she began, in between sips of coffee, "_why_ doesn't Meg know? She's lived her whole life at the House: why me and not her?"

A pained expression crossed his face. She started to apologize, but he stopped her. "No, it's all right, Christine, it was…very long ago." He put his cup down, put both arms around her.

"Fleur fell in love with Alphonse three years before Meg was born. They were inseparable. He was a dancer, arrived from Rheims, and Fleur was seventeen. LeFevre hired him, and they married." His eyes took on a faraway look. "I held Meg before she was an hour old. I took care of her while Alphonse and Fleur performed…I fed her, changed her, rocked her to sleep." He looked at Christine directly. "A tiny baby does not judge the face of the one who cares for her. Meg was perfectly content with me, and I loved her. She was the one person who never feared me, never drew back in horror or pity." He looked back through the years, seeing what once was.

Christine raised her free hand to his face, caressing the mask. Her soul felt for him. "What happened?"

"Tiny babies grow up. They start talking, and telling others about the man no one sees. I had to let her go, consigning myself to the shadows completely. I couldn't risk being discovered. Do you understand, Christine?" He turned his face to her, and once again she saw the fear in him of his past.

No, he would not be able to reveal himself, still could not. She kissed his cheek, nodding. Yes, she understood.

"I haven't spoken to her since she was three." He picked up his cup again, smiling wistfully.

_So that was what Madame Giry meant._ "What about me?" she asked. "Why look after me?"

His smile was brighter now. "Fleur asked me to," he said simply, then looked thoughtful. "I knew she was fetching you after your father's death, knew you would be alone in the world. Fleur would do what she could, but she could not watch you constantly. And there are some in this House whom neither of us trust," he said with a scowl. He stroked her hair, his eyes tender again as he looked into hers.

"Do you remember your first night here?" he asked gently. "You were crying, trying not to make any noise. But it was a strange place, a strange bed, and you had no one, not yet. My heart went out to you; even if Fleur had not asked, I would have sung to you, watched over you. If anything were to happen to you I couldn't bear it." He took her face in his hands, his heart full, and kissed her forehead.

She put her hands over his, feeling very small again. "Yes, I remember. And a voice, a man's voice, softly singing my name. I thought it was the Angel my father promised me. But it was you, it was always you."

"Disappointed?" he smiled, already knowing her answer.

"Never," she said, and kissed him, tasting coffee and him, always him. He had been there always, and always would be there. Her rock in an uncertain world.

Her Angel kissed her back, tasting coffee and his own sweet Angel. To the rest of the world he was a ghost, a phantom, but to the two women who gave his life meaning, he was now very real. He rejoiced in belonging to them both as they belonged to him. Soon, perhaps, he would be reunited with Meg, and his life would be whole.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. "Christine?" called the voice on the other side, and the knob began to turn. "The ballet hall," her Phantom said, and disappeared in a rustle of fabric, as if he had never been there.

Meg Giry entered the room as if on cue. "Christine, Mother sent me for you," she said, taking in the coffee service, the two used cups where there was only one person. She puzzled for a moment, then drew a sharp breath, realization dawning on her. Lowering her voice to an excited whisper, she asked, "He was here, wasn't he?" she looked around quickly. "Erik! He was here, he must have been! Where is he? Christine, where?" she entreated, taking Christine's hands.

Christine tried to make sense of what Meg was saying. How did she know? Had Madame Giry told her daughter the truth? "Meg, how do you know that name?" she asked. Would it be all right to tell what she knew?

Meg began looking around the dormitory, trying to find hidden doors in the panels. Christine had to ask her twice more before she stopped, coming to the bed. In a hushed voice, she said, "Christine, Mother told me, she told me about the Phantom of the Opera!" The questions came out in a rush: "What does he look like, where is he? Is it true you're _engaged_?"

So many questions so suddenly, Christine was taken aback. At least she knew how Meg had found out. "Meg," she began, "please, wait. I'll answer what I can, just please wait!" Finally Meg came to sit beside her, eagerly picking up the cups. For a moment Christine had a flash of what she must have looked like as the toddler Erik cared for. "Meg," she began again, "do you remember when you found me in the chapel, and I told you about the Angel of Music? How I thought it was my father's spirit coaching me?"

"Oh yes," Meg answered with delight, "and it was really Erik all along, wasn't it, Christine? How romantic! How exciting! And now he's asked you to _marry_ him, how perfectly wonderful!" she slowed down now, the words more coherent as she came around to her own childhood. "And…he took care of me, didn't he? Christine? It _is_ true, isn't it?" she asked, hope shining in her eyes. "Father died so long ago, I never knew him." She looked down at her hands, "Now, to find someone else who did…don't you see, Christine, it's like a second chance," she said earnestly. "You will introduce me, won't you?" she pleaded, and Christine could not help but smile.

"Of course I will, as soon as I can," she told Meg, and was rewarded with a hug.

Meg pulled back suddenly, dismayed. "Oh, but Christine…what about Raoul?" she asked.

Christine looked at the rose ring on her finger. "My life is here, Meg. He will have to understand that." _And where had Raoul been all those years? _The echo repeated in her mind, her Angel's accusations returning. No, she would not forsake the man who had given her everything for the one who had forgotten her.

The two women met Madame Giry in the ballet hall, just as the Phantom had said. More a large space between dedicated rooms than anything else, its smooth floors and openness allowed the _corps de ballet_ to practice at almost any hour. The Ballet Mistress left the lines of ballerinas to finish the piece they were working on and joined her daughter and Christine to one side. Quietly she asked, "And how are you, Christine?"

"I'm well, Madame," Christine replied, formal after last night's encounter and in front of the ballerinas. "Thank you for the rest, it was quite late."

Glancing at them both, Madame Giry added, "You have questions, yes? You both do," adding, "Wait here, the lesson is almost finished." To the girls, she called, "That is all for now! Tonight's rehearsal in two hours on the stage!" and gave advice to several ballerinas as they dispersed.

When the hall was empty, she turned to the two young women. "And now…what would you know?"

Meg was first. "When can I meet him? Mother, when?"

Fleur considered a moment, studying the scaffolding overhead. "You are sure?"

Meg thought about it seriously. "Yes."

"Even though he wears a mask?" she pressed, watching her daughter carefully. She approved of what she saw there. "Then now."

Both women were surprised, nervously looking around.

"Erik," Madame Giry called softly overhead, "Please, my dear. Come down." She moved back toward a corner where several stairways intersected, providing a quick escape if he needed one.

The girls joined Fleur in looking up. To their astonishment, a piece of darkness detached itself from the further darkness of the overhead flies and ropes. It disappeared. Long moments stretched out as they waited, hearing only the voices of other workers in the House.

A black cloak appeared just behind Madame Giry, came silently to stand beside her. The white mask and glossy black hair made a surreal counterpoint to Fleur's natural beauty.

"Meg?" The man in the cloak said, keeping the mask turned toward Fleur. His black-gloved hands were unsteady as he lifted them, just a little, toward her.

Meg put her hands up to her mouth, suddenly shy. "Oh…it's true!" she whispered, and closed the last few steps between them, looking up at his face. Hesitant, she took his gloved hands in hers. "I can't believe it."

"You were three when we last spoke," he said uncertainly, his voice rough. "I'm sure you don't remember me." He looked to Fleur, his eyes pleading.

Fleur stepped in to help. "You may not remember Erik, but you do have something of his," she said warmly. "The music box? The one with the little cat on it?"

"Oh, that's my favorite!" Meg exclaimed, "I still play it every night!" Shyly, she looked at their hands. He hadn't let go of hers. "You gave it to me?"

"I made it for your eighth birthday, just as I made one for Christine," he answered, trying not to boast. He was rightfully proud of them.

"Thank you," she said, and stood on tiptoe trying to kiss his cheek. It took him a moment, then he obligingly bent down to give her his good side. He wasn't used to being kissed as a routine thing. Impulsively, Meg hugged him hard, tears springing unexpectedly to her eyes. He gasped at the contact, then his arms went around her and tightened, and he let himself feel the happiness of being reunited with his own special child.

Footsteps. "Later," he said quickly, stepping back and into the darkness once again.

Meg's arms were suddenly empty.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Christine? What is it, child?" Madame Giry asked. Christine had been subdued all day; Fleur wondered if she regretted her decision. Erik had known he was in love with Christine for more than a year, although it was longer if the truth were told. But for Christine this was sudden, to go from knowing him as her teacher and guardian to being her fiancée. Fleur remembered her own Alphonse. He was handsome, five years her senior, and they had talked for hours before they ever kissed. Erik was brilliant and thoughtful--some of their discussions lasted days--but had he done that with Christine over the years? Most likely not. Christine was entering unknown territory, and it frightened her.

Christine looked at the woman who had taken a grieving orphan and given her a home, a place in the world, and the love she missed from her own mother, dying at her birth. She hesitated, knowing how close Madame Giry and her Angel were, wishing she did not feel as she did now. It felt like betrayal. "Nothing," she replied to the question, smiling wanly.

Fleur was not put off that easily. "Come, my dear, you have something that preys on your mind. What is it?" she leaned over to squeeze Christine's hand, inquiring further.

Bringing Christine to an alcove where no one, not even Erik could overhear, she asked her again. "We are alone here, child, you can speak what is in your heart. It is Erik,yes? You are unsure of him?"

Christine blanched at that, Madame Giry reading her mind. She nervously wrung her hands. "Madame, I know who he is, I know how you rescued him. I…can't," she turned away, distressed. She could not say what she felt without being both disloyal to her Angel and ungrateful to Madame Giry.

Fleur followed Christine the few steps she had taken away from the alcove. "Then I will guess. You do not know if you can marry someone who lives in the shadows, whose face can never be public?"

"That's not what disturbs me," she answered, putting on a brave front. "I know he loves me, and I love him. He's taken care of me all this time, taught me, made me a star." She put her face in her hands, trying to hide the thing she dared not say. Part of her wanted Madame to let her alone, and part of her badly wanted to say what her growing fears were.

Fleur knew better. "Child, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Marriage is serious business, I know only too well. To have doubts is only natural." She put a hand on the young woman's shoulders. "Better to know now what you have agreed to, when there is still time, than to fear what you do not know." She lowered her voice and spoke directly into Christine's ear. "He is not here right now, and he could not hear us even if he was. No one can. Please, my dear, say what is in your heart and perhaps I can help."

Shamefaced, Christine whispered, "His temper…he frightens me, sometimes." Reluctantly she told Fleur about his shoving her to the ground, his viciousness in denying her further contact with Raoul.

"Ah, of course. I see." And indeed she did. "It is true he has a quick temper, and with good reason," she said, her face clouding over. "Where I found him…it was horrible. I sometimes do not know how he can stay here at all, even in the shadows." She looked Christine directly in the eye. "But as fast as his anger comes, it also goes. I myself have made him angry many times, sometimes we are shouting at each other, yet he has never raised a hand to me." She paused a moment. "The thing that angers him most is injustice. You know I am Ballet Mistress because of him, yes?"

Christine did not, puzzlement on her features. "How could that be?" she asked.

Madame Giry looked around once more to make sure they were alone. No one showed signs of venturing in their direction down the hallway. "When Monsieur LeFevre first began managing the House, he was not like he is now. Everything was profit, how much we could bring in. He cared nothing for art, for beauty. Those of us who worked here were employees, nothing more, and if we did not do as he commanded, there were hundreds of people waiting to fill our places. We were told this time and again."

She looked at Christine to insure she understood the harshness of that contempt for the artistic drive. "There came a time when the stage floor had to be replaced. It was very old; it had become warped in several places. We all knew it was past time to do it, but of course it was expensive, and would require shutting down the House for several weeks. LeFevre said he would do it during the off season, but always found an excuse not to." She stopped, her eyes misting over. "One day, during rehearsal, one of the boards came loose, and Alphonse and I were thrown into the orchestra pit." She sighed. "I was lucky. I landed on a chair that collapsed under me, only breaking my ankle. Alphonse…he was not so lucky. He fell onto a music stand, and it took him directly across the throat…I only had a few moments with him before he died. He was my life…" her voice broke as her shoulders shook, crying silently.

Christine put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry," she told her erstwhile mother. She had never heard the story of Alphonse's death; the subject was quickly changed whenever Meg or Madame Giry were present.

Fleur brought out her handkerchief, dabbing at her carefully painted eyes. Christine had never seen her looking less than elegant, and never crying despite the years she had lived here.

Madame Giry took several deep breaths, composing herself. "My ankle did not heal well; I could no longer dance well enough to be a ballerina. Alphonse was gone, and I would have to leave the House. A crippled dancer was something LeFevre had no use for, even though it was his fault all of this happened." She looked at Christine. "He had even less use for a crippled dancer with a young girl to support." Her bitterness was understandable, but still took Christine aback. "But as Ballet Mistress I could stay here, live well, provide for Meg…and Erik would not have to decide whether to stay here or go with us. He arranged for me to be appointed Ballet Mistress soon after I knew I could no longer dance."

"How?" Christine was calmer now, intrigued at the way her Angel had taken matters into his own hands to fight back against such callousness.

"He said if LeFevre had not listened before, he would listen now. He started leaving messages in the House, threatening LeFevre with sabotage if he did not replace the floor at once and make me Ballet Mistress. He said he was the Opera Ghost, and destroyed some of the scenery to prove he was serious." She steeled herself, her back straight as she defended his actions. "The scenery took time to replace, and so the House had to be closed after all. When LeFevre tried to repair only the bad spots in the stage, the next day not only _all_ of the scenery, but the fastenings for it had been removed and thrown onto the stage. The stage floor was itself so damaged there was no choice but to replace the entire thing."

"LeFevre came to me that day, said that Alphonse would have wanted me to stay on in the House, and so he was making me Ballet Mistress. He also ordered the entire floor replaced, starting that very day. I suspect Erik did something more, something he has not told me; LeFevre was very pale when he informed me of his decision." Her face changed as she spoke of this; she did not like to be in the dark. "That was when Erik began demanding money. Up until then he lived down below the House, yes, but once he decided to exact revenge on LeFevre he could afford to live well, and to bring his artistic dreams to life."

She turned to Christine, gauging her reaction. She was trying to take it all in, stunned.

"He does many things, you know," Fleur said, glowing with pride in his accomplishments. "You see the design for the bridge in the new opera, the scene where the soprano sleepwalks? His. The music for the intermission? His. The mechanism for moving three pieces of heavy scenery at once? All his. He is architect, designer, composer...magician. A genius."

Fleur put her hands on Christine's shoulders, her eyes warm. "God wronged you in depriving you of both mother and father, so of course Erik took you into his heart before he even saw you. He loves you, my dear, as do I. I think you need not fear him."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Two weeks later they were married in the chapel, in front of Gustave Daae's shrine. The priest was curious about the masked groom, but the money Madame Giry had given him was heavy in his pocket, and he did not ask questions, marrying the young girl to the mysterious man. Fleur and Meg looked on, the only witnesses, as they spoke their vows and the final blessing was given; "In Nomine Patris, et Filius, et Spiritu Sanctu," the sign of the cross being made over them. Together, they lit a candle in front of her father's portrait and kissed, sealing their vows. A small, secret wedding, but meaningful all the same.

The happy couple thanked him profusely, but their eyes never left each other. The priest had seldom seen two people so obviously in love, and his fears about the masked groom faded away. He could tell the bride would be well taken care of, with so much love in her man's heart. Whistling, he made his way back onto the street.

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